The Minister's Memoirs
Letters from the bunk of Mz. Raspberry Deep, Silver Thorn, former Sacrecrow Minister Boot Camp Dearest Minister Prudence, I find myself buried in enemy territory: surrounded by young hopefuls, full of dreams and optimistic interpretations of Hedge Law. A long time ago (but not too long), I was someone similar, a lanky girl stinking of cheap booze, thinking I was going to make a real difference with raw pluck and passion. My badge then was a broadcloth mask cut from my only dress, and you took me under your burlap wing. I hope this letter finds you well. In present day, I just want for something useful to occupy me. Officer Liberty is good company (I mentioned him to you in glowing terms, some decades ago. You had me whipped for it!), but I couldn't bear to linger in that penthouse that wasn't mine, justifying my presence with little favors and short errands. Raspberry Deep is nobody's secretary, and certainly nobody's burden. You taught me that. I think you would be proud of me, if you weren't so furious, or dead, and surely you're one of those. I'm still not sorry for burning it all to cinders, my darling Prudie. I will never recant. If you haven't yet guessed, I've enlisted in the Thornwatch branch of the Magi of the Gilded Thorn! It was Officer Liberty's idea. Thoughtful, isn't he? Wish me luck! Your devoted student, Raspberry Deep Postscript: Enclosed is a gift, a sad tale of a mother bereft. It came to me years ago, after you had me dismissed. She reminds me of you. Am I your dead Orpheus, lost to the greedy Thorns instead of cruel Aphrodite's revenge? Hubris A sweet voice wept among the marble. The youth clambered up stairs half his height, glimmering tears spilling from his dark eyes. He was hastening toward the tombs of tragic heroes, but he didn't understand that. He could hear the war god's hot blood pulling at him, slowing him down. He was only exhausting himself. The New Adonis looked Eastward, where a columned maw promised safety. Over green blades that cut his bare soles, he fled, into the shrine. Surely, it belonged to the goddess of all love. His mistress would protect him. The harsh light blinded him, but he pushed on, trusting the worn limestone. Worn? At the foot of a broken altar, his eyes adjusted, and his hope failed him. To his knees he dropped, and he lifted his haloed gaze, despairing. The Mousai? Nine neglected arts stared down at him. Their stained gazes were unmoved by his plight: Indeed, they seemed pleased by it. He only dimly remembered their names, what had he ever done to earn their spite? "Please," He sobbed, summoning the remainder of his charms. "Please, O peerless goddesses of inspiration, take pity on me! I don't want to die!" One of their heads inclined, but it was the sister that bore a mask of melodrama. This was bad. His begging waxed fervent, but they basked in it, refusing to render aid. This was the first time an Adonis had tried to hide here, after all, and they'd always heard it was a good show. Their eldest sister was owed this pleasure, after the mess boys like him caused her. The eldest sister. It clicked, and raw horror slid over his fine features. "Oh, oh gods, I'd- I'd heard, but I didn't- I- I wasn't there, I had nothing to do with it! Have mercy!" Her eyes opened, and cracks all over her body widened and shone bright red. He swore he could smell the hoofbeats of the animal pursuing him. Her sisters cheered in beautiful, toneless song. Give him to Ares! "Oh no. No, please!" He clamped his arms over his head, and a tablet shattered beside him, white shards stinging his flawless skin. She leapt down, the heat of her Wrath coursing over him. Her Fair Voice rumbled with disuse, how long had it been since she'd spoken? "Get up, Born of Curses." She seized his wrist as she marched. He flopped sideways and twisted, trying to wrest away from her, but her pace quickened. "Forgive me, Calliope," She was hurting him, "Please forgive me-" "Shut up." She hauled him upright, and he staggered along, eyes wide with terror. "Beware, Calliope! In resisting Lord Thanatos, you choose him!" Lilted the lovestruck poet. The delicate notes twined with the nearing roar of a wild boar that split the sky. "Shut up!" She dragged him out of the temple under the lamentations of her sisters. Outside, Calliope broke into a run, chiton flaring around her legs, fleeing with the boy across the open field of drachmae. She scooped her hand down to grab a fistful. She could hear sister Clio in her head, complaining that this isn't right, it isn't how it happened. It isn't right. Sprinting for the black glades full of monsters, ignoring Adonis' warning that this wasn't the right way, she pressed on. But it makes a better story, was always her response. It was an argument they'd had plenty of times, while they weren't stone. The reaching arms of cursed dryads broke across her marble body and slashed at his. The way to the Metalflesh Shrine was the only way the Muse knew: when the Legends began again, they'd all be dragged there to restore their old, idealized forms, and when the Legends ended, they'd return and be doubly cursed once more. She felt her heart begin to beat, as all the trees resisted her. No more Legends. The youth cried as his shin struck rock, holy crimson spilling out. "Ow, fuck!" "Tartarus and Asphodel, I will feed you to the Sphinx." Her tongue was loosening. The stone statue picked him up and slung him across her back, noting that his blood wasn't ichor yet. It was a good thing, but she wasn't sure why. "Persephone!" He choked out. "Rescue me!" The statue grunted, feeling the eyes of Olympus begin to focus on them with her swearing and his plea. That's how it works, she cursed. The woods exploded behind them with a terrible splash and hurricane winds. "The Bane of Olympus comes for me!" The pregnant Earth shook with rage. "NO!" The Muse staggered, and willed herself to run faster on legs that shouldn't have been able to run at all. "SHUT UP!" The god craned his neck to see their gaining adversary: a great, ashen silhouette with gleaming blades sticking out of it. He thought of bright studs on a girl's gloves. Calliope's lungs inflated, and she coughed up white dust, like rosin swirling off her son's cello strings. The mystic pull reversed, and she flew like she never had in her whole life. Hot winds whipped at the fugitives, and crashing waves of forest deafened them. She jumped over widening rifts and sleeping satyrs that dissolved right under her. Ahead, two carved pillars loomed, white and black, a man with a wide-brimmed hat reclined above them. The Side Door. He smirked at the fleeing daemons, and chaos flourished around the world to flank them. When her foot touched dirt, it fell away into the boiling tsunami. A bare slab of rock jutted up, Adonis tumbled off her shoulders as stone cracked against stone. She couldn't hear her cry as it broke her body in half, and her arm dashed to pieces, her stolen drachma still clasped in her detached right fist. Then, it all froze. "Ha, haha, what did you say?" The shards of her body hovered in the air, and the red-blue torrent under them paused, stunned still. The perfect boy hung inches above a massive, bloody tusk that stuck out of the tidal wave. She hesitated, taking the impossible circumstances in. "I said, favor." He smacked his lips, focusing on her with eyes too far apart. "I always liked Muses. Very witty." "She's serious," Adonis piped up, pouring all the honey into his voice that he could muster. "Why don't we make a deal?" It roused another cold grin. "You jest." "You're the Guide and Guardian," Calliope added, "I can pay for our passage." "I am the Guide and Guardian." Eyes at once brown like the beaten path and blue as a dry, hopeless sky fixated on the shining coins that bore crude images of his fellows. "Those were stolen." The broken woman's parts began to turn like toys on a mobile. The scion of sin lowered closer to his fate. "I am the Master of Thieves." The True Fey slid down from his perch like molten gold, sandals hissing against the cold and ancient rock. That bloodsoaked tooth raked up Adonis' arched back, the boy's glittery tears sticking in the air. Then, the cursed boy's bare soles touched ground. Pieces of the statue inched back together and sealed in place with white paste; her hand bloomed and sparkling currency spilled out. "I am Hermes of The Ways." As the Olympian closed his empty palm, the green world between the pillars blurred into being. The younger gods took cautious steps, and then sped past the psychopomp, who only turned his head as they vanished into the Deep Hedge. "I am god of searches," The surging power oozed back into motion, and he faced it with the same chilling smirk. "And those who seek things stolen." Ares blasted through the gate. Bereavement Leave Dearest Minister Prudence, These last few weeks have been difficult, much as I hate to admit it. Every morning I wake up stiff and sore in some new part of my body. The training would be fine if it weren't for the insufferable brats alongside me. My bunkmate is a sweet young man, Charlie Cherrytree, but just yesterday I overheard a few girls talking about "that old drunk in A7." I would have worn their faces for masks if the Captain hadn't come around the corner and given me an evil eye. I've an idea about how to deal with the little beasts, but I'll be subtle about it. I'm prattling. Captain Liberty passed away. He was murdered by something cold and evil. I'd suspect you, but I know how you hate the Hedge. I barely knew him, Prudie: my heart aches for what could have been. I wonder if I should have taken my dismissal as a sign to retire, but if retiring didn't save Liberty, it won't save me. The funeral was lovely, brief, and sad. I chose not to take advantage of the offered leave time. Where would I go? Thanks to you, I've nothing, nowhere to go. I miss you terribly. Your Devoted Student, Raspberry Deep Postscript: Enclosed is a tale from a dashing young rogue I met a few years ago, and the first part of another I found in a broken clock. Tell me, Prudie, are you a patron of the arts? Preparation Little glass shards clinked into a bowl. The room was dark but for a single burning candle, and the red haired boy chewed his lip. "You're doing fine," Corbin gripped the younger danseur's heel tighter, anticipating a flinch as his glinting tweezers picked deeper into the gore. They were seated together on the cold floor, next to a short wooden bunk. Bastien gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. "Why do they do this?" Feathery auburn locks hid his make-do surgeon's emotion, but Bastien didn't expect Corbin to express anything except cold professionalism. "Don't play stupid." And contempt. "They do it to weed out the competition. The question is, why you? You're not worth the effort." "But I've been pract- Ow!" Clink. "Just keep your pointe shoes where you can see them, that way no one can sabotage them." "I can't look at my shoes all the time." "Then stop taking them off." "You don't take yours off?" "Never. Mine are permanent." Bastien opened his eyes, his face still screwed up in a grimace. The older boy had his legs crossed under him. Sure enough, his black slippers shone in the flickering light, and Bastien stared. Wouldn't they stink if they were permanent? "B-but, the box- Ah!" The boy jerked, and Corbin's slim knuckles whitened. "Pointe shoes can't be-" "You're an idiot if you just believe everything everyone tells you." He kept speaking over Bastien's gasping and whimpering. "It'll get you killed-- that is, if someone deigned to put in the effort." "But-" Bastien blinked back tears as he watched the dull tweezers pick ever deeper. "But Miss Fable would never do something like that." Watery blue eyes flicked up at Corbin. "She's so kind." "Fable?" Corbin drew out a long, sparkling sliver, and Bastien heaved a sigh. "I suppose. Anyway, that's the last of it." He relaxed his grip, and dabbed a wet cloth on the boy's wounds. "I'm going to wrap this. Change the bandages every few hours, and don't go stomping around on any more glass." "Corbin?" White strips wound around his arch, reminding him of the ribbon on his ruined shoes. "How can I get permanent shoes like yours?" "You have to make them, obviously." "Oh." Bastien had no idea how to do that, and Corbin said nothing more. Il Ladro Most memorable heist? Sure, lady. Pull up a chair. I think about it all the time. I'd been eyeballing it forever, y'know. The fat roach would host his galleries, trying to prove that beauty can be formed out of ugliness, or something. Dunno why he didn't just turn himself into a ballerina. Bloated filth-eater always hung it under the main spotlight, this tiny piece, while his sprawling murals spanned dimmer walls and edged toward corners. I felt bad for the big works, half the people in them were contorted in freaky poses and impaled on black swords or melting in hellfire. Not the one in the middle, though. Maybe that's why it was so popular. Anyway, I waited up in the steel rafters, tucked into shadow. I think the artist laid an egg before he left. No, a literal egg. Or an egg case, like a spider. I put on a cleaner's uniform and dropped down, blending in with the slaves that tidy up after their high-class masters. I sauntered up to it, the binding frame shimmering at me from the white wall. I mirrored the piece's meaningless smile in greeting. My blood pumped hot. Her cockroach eyes scrabbled as I thumbed out my boxcutter, but the rest of her was frozen stiff. I stuck it in the top corner, and ripped it right down. Lady, have you ever ruined something valuable? Feels good, doesn't it? Yeah. I cut it right out of the frame, I was so excited I barely noticed the sigil flash on the back. I rolled it up and shoved it under my coat, and strolled right out, my heart thundering, my breath quick. Security guy was taking a piss. I walked for a few blocks, and then ran and ran and I didn't stop running until I felt the Thorns. Wha'd I do with it? Well, I got to a clearing and took it out to look at it. It didn't move, so I guessed it was one of those regular paintings, except for the bugs. "Hey," I said to it. I dunno why I was talking, for once my prize wasn't trying to get away from me. I shoulda just enjoyed it. "You can move now, we're out." And what does it do? Not a damn thing. It just stayed frozen, like a regular painting. Well that freaked me out, so I started walking, looking for a gate, you know? Pretty soon I'm hearin' things, and that's dangerous, because you know how Fear changes the Hedge. So I start walkin' faster. Next, I'm hearing the sound of wings, like a big eagle's wings, and hissing, and half a casual conversation, something about dragging a lady back to the mountain. That's when I remembered that flash, and I figured out it was like a security tag at the store, and that fugly bug has some mook on my tail. I remembered too late. He was on me, all evil eyes and dirty skin, wrestled me down in a second. His breath was like summer wind on my face, his nose sharp like a stork's beak and almost brushing mine. I was afraid he was gonna kiss me. I'm not gay. Instead he says, "I am your patron saint," looking me over, like he was just observing a fact. "I was called to return your haul. Show me the fugitive." Well, I'm no dumbass, so I hand him the rolled up painting, and he looks at it, like what the hell is this thing, right? And my blood goes all cold and he gets off me, the canvas flaps open, and it's just blank. Lady, I felt a fucking Autumn mantle crawling up my neck, I was so fucking scared. He turned it around, looking at it front and back, and I'm just laying there, wondering which dark age torture device is gonna get shoved up my ass. He flashes me a big, white smile, though, and walks off with it. Just like that. Nope, no idea what happened to the picture. It don't make any sense, I'd'a seen it walk off if it did, or felt it, something! Right? I dunno. Bet your ass I became a church-going man afterward, just in case. Which saint? No, he wasn't any saint. One of the older guard, I think. The gods. They're all demons now. Gotta put your faith in Jesus. Field Training Category:Fiction